


What Child is This?

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Babies, Christmas, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Feelstide, M/M, Rating for Mild Language, SHIELD Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has left the Avengers a Christmas Gift. It certainly wasn't on any of their lists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phil

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide. The prompt is at the bottom of the story for the benefit of those who do not wish to be spoiled.
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toy, not mine. I'm just playing.
> 
> All the credit in the world goes to [Maquis Leader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader) for the endless help on this one. It would _not_ have been finished without her help, cheerleading, patience, suggestions, back-patting and general awesomeness. I wanted to give her co-author credit on it, but she wouldn't let me.
> 
>  

"Good morning, sirs. I apologize for the early interruption, but I have an urgent communication from Mr. Stark."

Both Clint and Phil instantly come awake as JARVIS' cultured tones break the early morning stillness of their bedroom.

Clint blinks and rubs a hand over his face. Phil shakes his head to clear it and makes some sort of half-intelligible sound that JARVIS thankfully takes as an acknowledgement.

"Good morning, Agents Coulson." Tony's voice is tight, more strained than normal. "I think someone's left us a Christmas present."

Clint groans. "For fuck's sake, Stark, what are you, six? You're a big boy, I'm pretty sure you can wander out and see if Santa came without us holding your hand."

Phil flops onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes. Clint snorts beside him at the melodramatic gesture, and Phil kicks at his leg. Stark goads him into feeling histrionic sometimes, and while he'd never let Tony see it, he hides nothing from his husband.

"Oh, believe me, I wish annoying you were my only goal this morning, boys. It appears someone has left us a baby."

They both freeze in surprise, staring at each other in the near-darkness.

"Half-light, JARVIS," Phil orders, and they blink against the sudden brightness. "Explain, Stark."

"Building security just called. One of the guards on patrol heard crying coming from the family restroom in the tower lobby. He went in and found a baby, by itself, with a note addressed to _The Avengers_. I told him not to touch anything yet, but I thought you might want to know. I'm on my way down."

Phil sits up and runs a hand down his face. "We'll be down in five." When Stark disconnects, he sighs. "Merry Christmas to us," he mutters.

"Seriously?" Clint asks as he drags jeans on. "A baby? If this is one of Stark's jokes -- "

"He sounded serious enough -- hell, he sounded serious, period. How often does that happen?"

Phil stares into the closet, pausing in the act of reaching for a clean suit.

"Screw it, it's 5 a.m. on Christmas morning," he growls, grabbing jeans and a sweater.

Three minutes later, they're striding down the hallway, blinking in the brighter light of the tower's public areas. The elevator ride is quick, and the lobby is hushed and empty at this hour on a holiday -- the shops are closed, and not even Starbucks is open yet, though there are a couple of employees moving around in the half-lit store. A quiet query from Phil has JARVIS directing them the right way.

They meet up with Tony halfway through the lobby and approach the family restroom together. They can hear the crying before they even open the door.

The tower's second shift security chief stands just inside the door, looking pained and very worried. There is an infant in a carrier on the floor just under the diaper changing station -- a boy, if the baby blue, footed pajamas with footballs on them are any indicator. A very full diaper bag rests on the floor next to the carrier, the note Tony mentioned propped against it. _The Avengers_ is written in bold writing, underlined twice for emphasis.

The kid is screaming, red in the face, limbs flailing, and Clint glares at the security guard.

"What the hell, man, you just left him there screaming?"

He crosses to the baby and crouches beside him, ignoring Phil's abortive attempt to reach for him.

"Clint -- " he starts, but the chief of security cuts him off.

"Mr. Stark told me not to touch anything! I didn't want to disturb the scene!" He raises his phone so they can see it. "I took pictures."

"It's not a scene, it's a baby," Clint grinds out. He appears to be searching the baby for anything unusual -- devices, tripwires, anything hinky -- but all Phil can see is a very unhappy kid in a set of wrinkled pajamas.

Clint carefully doesn't touch anything but the kid as he awkwardly lifts him out of the carrier.

"Come on, you're good, don't cry. It's okay," he says softly, bouncing the baby a little as he walks back toward the others, wincing when the screaming kicks up in volume.

"Did you call the police?" Phil asks the security chief. His name is Ricketts... Richards... Richardson, Phil remembers, nodding a little to himself as he recalls the name.

The man shifts nervously on his feet and glances at Tony. "Uh, no. I wasn't sure -- "

"He wanted to check with me first," Tony clarifies.

Phil pulls out his phone out of his pocket, pausing when Clint's free hand closes quickly -- but gently around his wrist. He arches an eyebrow.

"Who are you calling?"

"NYPD. This is not our area, Clint."

"You can't -- they'll call DFS -- "

"That is the general idea, yes." Phil slides his hand out of Clint's grasp.

"No," Clint snaps, nearly vibrating with tension. The baby, picking up on his agitation, begins to cry even harder. Clint awkwardly bounces him in his arms, shaking his head at Phil. "No, you can't, they'll take the kid, Phil."

Phil glances from Clint swaying and shushing the baby to Richardson, who is watching them all with wide eyes. "Why don't you wait outside for us, Mr. Richardson? Watch the hall, make sure no one happens upon the scene."

With a glance at Tony, who nods in confirmation, Richardson pulls open the door and steps out without another word. Phil goes back to watching Clint.

"Are you planning to keep him?" Phil asks, trying -- and failing -- to keep his voice even and objective.

"No! Of course not. Not... not like forever, but just... it's Christmas, Phil. They'll take him to some awful group home, and he'll be there where nobody gives a sh -- nobody cares, and it's _Christmas_."

"They have emergency foster families, Clint," Phil says softly.

"He's a cute kid," Tony breaks in. "Someone's bound to want him for a few nights 'til the cops figure out where he belongs."

"You really think someone's gonna answer their phone and take a kid in on Christmas? People are busy with their _real_ families -- nobody wants someone else's leftovers."

"Clint..."

The archer keeps his gaze firmly on the baby in his arms. "Please, just... just for now. We'll figure out who he belongs to and where he needs to be, you know we will. Let's just... let's just figure out what's going on before we call anyone, okay? That's all I'm asking. Just... look at the note first?"

Filled with misgiving, Phil waits until Clint reluctantly looks up, and then stares into his husband's eyes. They're gray with worry as he says, "He deserves to be with people who actually care if he's crying, on Christmas."

Phil sighs inaudibly, well aware that he's going to give in, no matter how bad an idea it is. "And how do you expect me to explain to the NYPD tomorrow why we waited a whole day to call them?"

"The Keystone Kops? Seriously?" Tony interjects. "We have JARVIS. We'll find whoever's responsible before the sun comes up. They'd still be putting on their pants."

" _If_ we don't find anything by tomorrow, we'll just tell them it's SHIELD business," Clint says. "Classified."

"It _isn't_ SHIELD business, and we can't just trample all over their jurisdiction whenever we want to, Clint," Phil says, pinching tiredly at the bridge of his nose. This is not how he expected to spend Christmas morning. His plans involved a lot more time in bed and a lot fewer clothes. And exactly one less screaming child.

Clint is right, though, as much as Phil dislikes admitting the truth of the way things are now. In the wake of the Chitauri invasion, SHIELD's existence has become much more widely known, and the amount of authority they've been given by panicked governments makes the Department of Homeland Security look like a bunch of meter maids. If Phil tells the NYPD they held back information for SHIELD'S classified business, the local LEOs will have to go along with it. Unhappily, but they'll go along with it.

He'll deal with that if it becomes necessary. No sense borrowing trouble. There's plenty of it to go around already.

"We don't have the resources in the residence to care for an infant," he tells Clint, and Tony coughs and raises a hand.

"Pretty much unlimited resources, here, in case you forgot. If Merida wants to play mommy for a night or two, we'll get whatever Junior needs."

He grins fiercely at Clint when the archer aims a death glare at him.

Phil sighs. He's probably going to regret this. "This _cannot_ get out," he tells them. "If it gets out that we took in an abandoned baby, even for an _hour_ , we'll become a dumping ground."

Clint's gaze is troubled, so before he can open his mouth to ask why that would be a problem, Phil continues. "What happens if we're away on a mission? What happens if they decide they don't want to come into the building and they leave the baby in the snow? What happens if someone with less-than-honorable intentions finds an abandoned baby before we do? This is not our job, Clint."

Clint looks unhappy, but he nods in comprehension. The baby is finally slowing down, no longer wailing, but making sad little whimpery sounds.

Phil pulls out the digital camera he shoved into his pocket on the way out of the suite, and a pair of latex gloves. Tony eyes the gloves, glee on his face, and Phil eyeballs him back blandly, wordlessly daring him to comment.

Tony seems to know the wicked grin is enough -- for now -- and he holds his tongue as Phil starts taking pictures of the nearly sleeping baby in Clint's arms and the empty carrier, and the note and diaper bag beside it. 

He crouches down by the carrier, setting the camera on the tile to pull on the gloves. 

"Anyone got a pen?" he asks. Tony and Clint glance at each other and shake their heads. Tony opens the door and asks Richardson, grinning briefly in triumph as he pulls one through the door and hands it to Phil, who uses it to shuffle the note to the floor and flip it open, holding it down with the pen so that he can read it.

"'Dear Avengers,'" Phil reads. "'I just wanted to do a good job and take care of him, but it's so hard, he's never happy and he just won't stop crying. Please take care of him.'"

Phil stands, leaving the note on the floor, and they all stare at each other blankly.

"Seriously?" Tony snaps after a moment. "What does this idiot think, that we're just gonna say, oh, okay, thanks, and raise the damn kid, no questions asked?"

"Well, he does kinda look like you," Clint says, looking down at the kid's dark eyes and shock of thick, dark hair.

Tony points at him. "That -- no. No. Don't even joke about that, asshole."

"Language, Stark," Clint snaps, which Phil finds fairly amusing, but they both wince at the thought of what a nightmare a paternity suit would be for Tony.

Phil sighs again. If that's what's going on here, he's going to kill Tony and the kid can have everything. "We'll need to review the security feeds. I guess that's as good a place as any to start."

Tony's staring at him as if he's just started speaking in tongues. "JARVIS, review the tower's security footage. Find me the -- " He breaks off and glances at the baby and clearly makes an effort to tone down whatever he was going to say. "Find me the _moron_ who left this kid here."

"Certainly, sir," JARVIS intones, and then, nearly without a pause, "I have located him, sir."

Tony's grin is half-predatory, half-proud. "Of course you have. Tell me."

"It appears that a single male individual entered the restroom with the child at 4:17 a.m. and exited alone at 4:23. He made his way through the building, exited through the south doors, turned east, and crossed out of the security network's range at 4:26."

"Can you follow him farther?"

"Only if I tap into the city's grid of surveillance cameras."

"Do it. Use SHIELD's grid if necessary. Find him."

He must be able to feel the strength of Phil's thin-lipped glare, because he glances over and smiles broadly. "You're more than welcome to try and get him out of your network, Agent. I look forward to the challenge. Not that it'll be much of one."

Phil closes his eyes briefly and then re-opens them, because he is well aware of how much of a lost cause it is trying to get JARVIS out of systems he has infiltrated. He receives tri-weekly reports from several of SHIELD'S departments that say, basically, _Nope. Still there._ Recognizing the futility of an argument, he chooses not to fight that particular battle now.

"He needs a medical check-up. We can take him to SHIELD Medical -- "

"No," Tony and Clint say in unison. When he eyes them, brow arched in question, Tony rolls his eyes.

"You really think SHIELD Medical has the resources to deal with a newborn -- "

"He isn't a newborn," Phil breaks in. "I'm not sure how old he is, but he's not a newborn."

Tony scoffs. "Whatever. You really think SHIELD Medical can deal with a baby? They can't even deal with _this_ one over here when he's acting like one," he argues, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward Clint.

"Just 'cause I'm holding a baby, don't think I can't still kill you in several different ways, Stark," Clint says darkly.

Tony ignores him. "JARVIS! Find me a pediatrician who'll make a housecall, stat."

"On Christmas?" Phil asks in disbelief.

"Not all docs celebrate Christmas, don't be so culturally insensitive, Coulson."

The cost of a pediatric housecall on Christmas is going to be astronomical, but Phil has learned that when Tony wants something on his dime, fighting him on it is a futile struggle.

"Look, if you really want a SHIELD presence there to maintain appearances, Bruce is a SHIELD-certified field medic. He can take notes. With an actual pen. On actual paper. Let's go wake him up. In fact, let's go wake everybody up. It's time to take this party upstairs -- the ambiance down here is a little lacking."

Tony pulls the door open. Richardson, who is watching the empty lobby as if supervillains might jump out from behind the twenty-foot Christmas tree, looks around. "Sir?"

"We're going back up. Lock the door and stick an out of order sign on it," Tony tells Richardson. "Keep it closed -- no one in or out, not even you, until further notice. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sir," JARVIS says suddenly, "I have located several pediatricians willing to make a housecall. Unfortunately, the earliest available time is in approximately seven hours."

"Offer more money."

"If I may provide an alternative, sir, perhaps I can scan the child to ensure there are no life-threatening illnesses or conditions. In addition, in the interests of proper and accurate documentation, a licensed pediatrician can examine him at the earliest opportunity."

"JARVIS can do that?" Clint asks in surprise. "Scan people? Medically?"

"No," Phil says, cutting him off. "JARVIS is not an acceptable alternative for your SHIELD post-mission medical checks. Put it out of your mind."

Clint scowls at him even as Tony nods thoughtfully. 

"Thanks, J. That's a good idea. We're going up now, then. Make an appointment with the earliest available ped. You comin', Coulson?"

"Go ahead," Phil says absently as he crouches down to peer at the diaper bag, taking a couple of closer shots before he opens it. "I'm going to look around a little more, and then I'll be up."

There are footsteps behind him as they leave the bathroom, familiar ones pausing on the tiles at the threshold.

"Phil?"

There is a touch of uncertainty in Clint's voice -- not enough for anyone but Phil to notice, but it's there, nonetheless. Phil stands and turns, nodding for Tony to head on out. Tony pulls the door out of Richardson's hand to close it, leaving Phil, Clint, and the baby alone in the room, and Phil shakes his head ruefully, because Tony chooses the most random times to be tactful and considerate.

Clint is eying him, a tiny frown between his eyebrows, and Phil can't help but smile a little, because even in his anxiety, Clint is swaying slightly, unconsciously, to soothe the sleeping child.

The smile works like a release valve, and the tight line of Clint's shoulders eases.

Phil's tension, on the other hand, ratchets up until there is a familiar throb behind his eyes. He hopes like hell they find this kid's family and determine that his home is a safe place, because if he has to call NYPD tomorrow and DFS comes to take this child, Clint is going to be devastated.

"I..." Clint starts, but he trails off.

Phil steps closer, rests a hand on his shoulder. "I know. It's okay. Go on upstairs, I'll be up in a few."

But Clint needs more reassurance that they are okay, that this isn't going to grow into a huge problem, that his own issues aren't driving a wedge between them. Phil hesitates, because this is work, but it's not, this is home, but it's not, and they have rules, but he supposes that when he's just thrown all the rules and regs out the window to keep from disappointing Clint, to keep from hurting him, then he can break one more rule to give Clint what he needs. He stretches forward, mindful of the baby, and catches Clint's lips with his own in a quick kiss.

Clint sighs and practically melts into the kiss, sighing again when Phil pulls away far too soon.

"Everything's fine," Phil tells him.

He's been working very hard to focus on the problem and nothing else, but the little smile Clint gives him, the soft look in his eyes, the way he's protectively cradling the sleeping baby in his arms -- all of these things batter through Phil’s walls and make him ache vaguely for things he's never really wanted before.

To cover his confusion, he crouches down by the diaper bag once more, biting back a sigh when his knees both pop at the action.

"Do you need help?" Clint asks. "I could..." he aims an elbow at the carrier. "I could put him down."

"There isn't much, it won't take long. I just want to see if there's anything identifying in the bag, and then I'll be up."

"Then we'll wait."

The pronoun throws him, and Phil blinks a couple of times and then takes a few more pictures. He unzips the diaper bag, stifling a noise of disgust at the odor and the mess within. He takes more pictures and then sets the camera down on the tile.

There are baby clothes crammed into the bag, soiled with what looks like milk or formula and spit-up -- and thankfully nothing else, it appears -- and crumpled into balls rather than folded or packed away properly. The clothes run toward what Phil imagines is the male end of the baby clothes spectrum, mostly blues and greens and browns, with trucks and balls and dinosaurs on them. 

There isn't much in the bag other than all the dirty clothes -- one unused diaper and a mostly-empty package of baby wipes, and a small stuffed frog, plush green fur stiff and stained just like the clothes.

Nothing identifying, and Phil sighs. 

"Find anything?" Clint asks, and Phil shakes his head, still staring at the mess.

Grabbing the unused diaper and the baby wipes, he leaves the rest as it is and pushes to his feet. He looks at the empty carrier for a moment, and shrugs. It'd be useful, but it's better to leave the scene as untouched as possible, in case they do need to call in the locals.

Besides, he's fairly convinced that by the time they get upstairs, Tony will already have ordered an entire nursery to be delivered within the hour.

He strips off the gloves and pushes them into his pocket -- leaving them in the bathroom trash can will only contaminate the scene even further, so he'll throw them out up in the residence.

He knocks on the door and Richardson opens it, a question on his face, and Phil realizes the futility of his action.

"I wanted you to open the door so I could keep from touching the handle, but both you and Stark have already grabbed it, so that's pointless. Any fingerprints are probably destroyed."

Richardson looks guilty, and Phil mentally facepalms. He gestures for Clint to precede him, lightly touching the small of his back as he passes, and his lips twitch as Clint turns to smile at him. Casual touches -- in public -- are rare, if not actually unheard of, and Phil has no idea what's suddenly made him break his own rules. He's uncomfortably aware that it might be the sight of Clint with a baby in his arms, and he pushes those thoughts away to focus on the problem.

Tony is waiting for them outside the bathroom, on his phone, and he turns toward the elevator, still talking as they trail behind him.

"I know, Pep -- no, I don't know why you didn't wake up -- I wasn't in the workshop, I swear. I promised, didn't I?" he exclaims, and Clint smirks at Phil because it's obvious to both of them from the look on his face that when the call came in about the baby, Tony _was_ in the workshop.

"I know it's Christmas, but someone has to be open. If they're not, just, I don't know, offer them more money. We need uh, formula, I guess, and bottles. Oh, and diapers -- what? Size? They come in sizes? Yeah, I guess they'd have to, wouldn't they? I don't know how much he weighs, Pepper, it's not like there was a scale -- "

"About twelve, thirteen pounds," Clint says as they step into the elevator, and Tony just stares at him for a second. Clint shrugs.

"Clint says around twelve or thirteen pounds, you should see him, it's adorable, I didn't know birds had such maternal instincts."

The archer barely bites off whatever he was going to say -- out of deference to the baby, Phil thinks, which is ridiculous, since it's not like he's going to be repeating anything anytime soon -- and settles for glaring at Tony, who just smirks.

"And some clothes, and one of those carrier things, and I guess a crib -- "

"We don't need a crib, Stark. He's not staying," Phil says abruptly, because it's clear that if he lets Stark continue, he _will_ have a whole nursery ordered by the time the elevator hits the residence.

Tony just stares at him. "And what is he going to sleep in tonight if we don't have a crib?"

Phil just stifles a sigh and steps into the elevator. Tony is still listing off 'necessities' as the doors close on them.

 


	2. Clint

Tony is still talking when the elevators open onto the communal floor of the residence. Clint steps out, glancing down to see that the baby is still asleep, and there is a nervous, fluttery feeling of panic in his gut. The kid looks so innocent, he has no idea how messed up his life is right now, no idea that he might end up in some group home, his life nothing but artificial lighting and institutional food and regimented routines.

Clint breathes deeply, trying for focus. The kid's a baby, and the babies never stick around long. Someone always wants them. Someone always takes them. It'll be okay. He'll be okay.

Phil must be able to feel his confusion, because his hand is solid and warm on Clint's back, and that’s weird -- Phil is hardly ever affectionate like this outside their suite, he rarely touches Clint unless he's patching him up somehow -- but Clint is so grateful. Phil is his rock, Phil keeps him steady and grounded, and he needs that right now because this tiny kid has thrown him into some sort of crazy tailspin.

"I'm going to go change," Phil murmurs in his ear, and Clint feels a pang of disappointment -- Phil in a sweater and jeans is so uncommon that it almost feels like it's part of his Christmas present, but this has definitely turned into work, no matter how unofficial, and he's not surprised Phil wants the sense of calm and composed authority his suits give him.

Tony stops talking and his fingers fly over the screen of his phone as he sends a series of texts. "Pep's on her way down, she wants to see the kid, and I'm waking Cap and Bruce. Thor and Jane went out at like four, who the hell knows why, and I'll leave it up to one of you to wake Natasha. You two might not die for it."

"I'll do it," Phil volunteers. "I need to go change anyway." He glances at Clint, down at the baby, and then back into Clint's eyes again. "Will you be okay for a few minutes?"

Clint looks down at the baby, watching his eyes flit rapidly behind his eyelids for a second or two. He shrugs. "Sure. We're buddies."

Phil cups the back of Clint's neck for a second, squeezing gently, before he steps into the elevator again, and Clint watches him go.

He glances back to see Tony staring at him with an eyebrow raised.

"He's touchy-feely this morning."

It only reinforces what Clint's noticed. It really is odd, but he's not going to let Tony know that. "Yeah, well, we were supposed to be having one of several rounds of Christmas morning sex right about now, so you'll have to forgive us."

Tony's face goes carefully blank, the way it always does when he's forced to seriously consider the idea of Coulson in the bedroom rather than just using it as fodder to tease Phil. It's an effective weapon in Clint's arsenal, so he tries not to use it very often. Before Tony recovers, the elevator dings again and the doors open to show Pepper, hair piled loosely on top of her head, dressed in a plain t-shirt and Iron Man pajama pants. Her eyes widen.

"Oh my God," she breathes as she steps out. "He's so little. How could -- how could someone just _leave_ him like that, what is wrong with people? Is he okay? How does someone just abandon a baby? On _Christmas!_ "

She moves closer and Clint has to fight the urge to pull the baby to his chest as she reaches for him, but her fingers are feather light as she strokes them over the baby's head. She turns on Tony, her face suddenly fierce and serious.

"You'd better be finding this -- this -- _person_ , Tony."

He raises his hands defensively. "Already got JARVIS on it, Pep. We'll find him."

"Good!" She turns back to Clint, who barely restrains his flinch, but her face is soft again as she gently brushes the baby's cheek. Tony rests a hand on the small of her back, and she turns back to him, leaning into the touch. "He's okay? Nothing's wrong with him?"

Before he can answer, the elevator opens again to admit Bruce and Steve, and the foyer is getting crowded.

"Wow, you weren't kidding," Bruce says, and Tony looks offended.

"Would I joke about -- okay, I would, maybe, yeah, just to get you all down here in your pajamas in the middle of the night, but this time I didn't."

Everyone starts talking over each other, their voices rising, and Clint looks down in alarm as he feels the baby shift in his arms. "Shh!" he snaps, somewhat amazed when they do. "If you wake him up, _you_ are dealing with him."

Bruce grins briefly at Tony. "You weren't kidding about that, either," he says, and Clint glares first at him and then at Tony.

"Did you get all the baby stuff ordered?" Tony asks Pepper and she raises an eyebrow at him.

"No," she says. "I came down to see the baby. JARVIS is taking care of it."

"Indeed, Miss Potts. Orders are still being placed. The first delivery of formula, clothing, and diapers should arrive within the hour. The furniture will be delivered by midmorning."

"Furniture?" Clint asks, glancing up at Tony in surprise. He'd heard Tony talking on his phone earlier but hadn't really registered what he was saying. "What the he -- what did you order, Tony?"

"How much stuff can one baby need?" Steve asks. "My mother made me a bed in a dresser drawer. Lined it with blankets, and it worked fine for a few months. Seems like that’d be okay for a night or two."

They are all staring at him. "You slept in the dresser?" Pepper asks after a moment.

He rolls his eyes. "Not in the dresser. In a drawer. Pulled out of the dresser."

Clint says nothing -- he's pretty sure he remembers his mom telling him something similar. The baby shudders awake in his arms suddenly, fussing and whimpering, and he stares at it. "What? What'd I do, I didn't even -- oh." He sniffs again, his nose wrinkling. "Oh, God, I think he needs his diaper changed." 

He looks wildly around the foyer, his gaze sliding over everyone and landing on Pepper. His eyes light up with relief while hers narrow.

"What, you think just because I'm a woman, _I_ should change it? A uterus means I'm the designated diaper changer?"

"What? No -- " Eyes wide, he backs up a step, curling himself protectively around the fussy baby as Pepper pokes him in the chest with a fingertip.

"That's a pretty chauvinistic -- no, it's a _caveman_ point of view, Clint, and I don't appreciate it. At. All."

Her fingertip is sharp, and Clint finds himself wishing he was wearing his protective field gear. "No! No, I would never -- I just -- I -- I have no freaking clue, and Steve's probably never even _seen_ a modern diaper, and you, you're like Phil, you're good at everything!"

She pauses, and he can see her trying to figure out if she should be flattered or continue to be insulted. Clint really, really hopes she picks flattered.

To Clint's surprise, it's Bruce who lifts the baby from his arms. "Come here, big guy. Let's see if we can't get you fixed up. We should get out of the foyer, and I need a towel or something to lay him on."

"While you're doing that -- which I'm sure is fascinatingly entertaining, really, I'm sorry to miss it -- I'm going to head down to the workshop and make sure there's a good place down there for JARVIS to do his thing."

"Thanks, Tony," Clint says quietly, and Tony just shrugs and turns toward the elevator.

A towel is produced and laid flat on the carpet in the large communal living room, and Bruce lays the baby down on it, kneeling beside him. Clint crouches down on the other side, handing Bruce their only clean diaper and the last of the baby wipes. He blinks, taken aback when Steve kneels at the foot of the towel.

Bruce looks up with a little smile as he starts unsnapping all the tiny snaps on the baby's pajamas. "You might not want to take that position, Cap. Could be dangerous."

Steve looks at him quizzically, and he chuckles. "Boys tend to, uh..." His hands describe an arc in the air. "It's the sudden feeling of the cold air on warm skin, I think."

Cheeks red as he comprehends Bruce's meaning, Steve moves to crouch beside Clint, who eyes him inquisitively.

Steve lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "You never know when a skill might come in handy."

Bruce is now carefully maneuvering the baby's flailing limbs out of the tangled fabric.

"The crying doesn't... upset you?" Pepper asks, and because she is truly interested rather than worried or accusatory, Bruce satisfies her curiosity.

"Babies cry when their needs aren't being met," he says evenly. "Nothing upsetting about that, in concept. It's when they continue to cry because they're left wanting and needy that I get upset. But we're gonna take care of this little man here, aren't we? Yes, sir, we are."

He undoes the tapes at the sides of the diaper, and all of them recoil a little as he opens it.

"Oh, you're a mess, little guy," Bruce says, and his voice is tight. Clint looks at him in concern as he takes the wipes and cleans the baby up. His eyes are narrow, his expression carefully blank.

"Bruce?"

Bruce is breathing too deeply and too evenly, flinching when the baby shrieks as the cold wipe hits his irritated skin. He makes soothing sounds as he continues cleaning the baby up and pulling the soiled diaper out from underneath him.

"Is... is he supposed to be that red? Down there?" Steve's voice is hushed and faintly horrified.

"No," Bruce bites out. "No, that's what a very bad case of diaper rash looks like."

"Bruce?" Clint asks, trying to keep his anxiety out of his voice. "I can... we can figure it out if you need to... if you -- "

"I'm fine," Bruce says as he situates the new diaper. He shows them how to position it, how to make sure the little ruffles aren't tucked in around the baby's legs, and how to make sure the tapes are tight, and he points out the color change stripe that will tell them if the baby’s wet the new diaper. His actions are very precise as he re-dresses the baby and snaps him back up, and then he practically shoves him back into Clint's arms and hurries from the room.

Phil and Natasha walk in, glancing back after Bruce.

"What is that about?" Natasha asks, looking back once more.

Clint stands and bounces a little to calm the baby. "I think we need JARVIS to do that scan now. He's... it's pretty clear he hasn't been very well taken care of."

Phil's eyes widen the tiniest fraction. "Is there a problem?"

"He's got a pretty bad case of diaper rash."

Phil frowns. "There wasn't anything in the diaper bag for it."

Clint breathes deeply, pushing down his anger. "Exactly. Wasn't any formula or anything in it either."

Steve moves to stand by him and pushes a finger into the baby's waving hand, his expression softening into a smile as the little fist closes around it and the kid gurgles at him. "Tony wasn't very forthcoming with details. Have the police been called?"

Clint stiffens, relaxing when Phil briefly touches his elbow.

"We're holding off on that for now," Phil says evenly. "JARVIS is trying to find the man who left him here, and he'll also be providing a basic medical check-up. Soon, I hope."

"Tony's working on it now," Clint says, keeping his gaze fixed on the baby. In Phil's bland report to Steve, he's heard everything that's missing. A report to the NYPD, a report to DFS, a report to SHIELD, a documented medical check at an accredited facility -- all of the things Phil's tossed out the window. Phil is willing to obstruct a possible police investigation, simply because Clint asked him to.

That level of trust, the depth of his love for Clint still startles Clint, humbles him even after all this time. Suddenly, he wants to drag Phil back to their suite and show him how much he's loved in return, but he can't. Not right now. But once they get this baby back where he belongs, Clint's definitely making up for their missed Christmas morning sex tenfold, and then some.

"Okay, good," Steve says, still wiggling his finger for the baby to clutch. "Then we'll have him until we find his family or a good home for him."

There is an awkward pause. Phil's lips thin, and he takes a deep breath.

"If we can't find his family by tomorrow, we're turning the case over to the NYPD and DFS," Clint says smoothly, because as much as it kills him, that's what he asked for. One day. And he'll keep his end of the bargain, because God knows Phil is keeping his end.

Steve's brow furrows. "DFS?"

"Department of Family Services," Pepper tells him. "Social services. The foster system, group homes. They'll take care of him until his family is found, or if that isn't possible, a new family can take him in."

Steve frowns even more. "Well, that doesn't sound very good for you, little one. Guess we'll just have to find out where you belong before tomorrow, won't we?"

"If you are ready, Mr. Stark has asked me to inform you the workshop is prepared," JARVIS says suddenly.

Clint moves toward the elevator and the rest of them fall into step behind him. He glances at the trailing crowd and grins down at the baby. "Hope you aren't too modest, kid, 'cause there's a lot of people about to see you in your skivvies."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

There is a space cleared off on one of the work counters, covered by a couple of clean shop towels for padding, and Tony is muttering to JARVIS as they file into the workshop. He eyes them all warily -- Clint knows Tony is not a fan of too many people in his workspace, but for whatever reason, they're all invested in this kid and no one wants to wait outside.

Tony's brow creases. "Where's Bruce?"

They all glance at each other. "He, ah, it's probably better if he's not here when JARVIS does the scan," Steve says after a moment. "It wouldn't be good for anyone if Bruce is here and JARVIS sees something upsetting."

"He's our only SHIELD-certified medic," Tony points out.

"I believe JARVIS is more than capable of adequately documenting the scan," Phil replies. "There's absolutely no need to agitate Bruce."

"Thank you, sir. You may put him down now, please, Agent Barton."

Clint eyes the work counter. It's pretty narrow, and there's no ledge on either side. "What if he rolls off?" he asks, ignoring Tony's rolled eyes and the way Natasha witheringly shakes her head.

"I assure you, sir, the scan will not take long. And you may stand beside him, if you wish."

"Do we need to take his pajamas off for the scan?" Phil asks as Clint lays the baby down on the counter and hovers close by, hands ready to grab.

"No, sir. Scan complete. You may pick him up, Agent Barton."

Clint stares up at the ceiling. He knows JARVIS isn't there, but it's reflex. "That's it? Are you sure that's enough?"

"Hey," Tony begins defensively, quieting abruptly when Pepper elbows him not-so-subtly in the ribs and nearly all the screens in the lab flash on, data scrolling and blinking in profusion.

"I have scanned him three times to ensure accuracy," JARVIS replies. "Do you require me to repeat the scans?"

"Uh, no," Clint says as he picks up the kid. "No, I guess that's good."

He tries to parse the data JARVIS is showing them, but it's hopeless. He glances around at the rest of them, but they all look just as puzzled. Only Bruce might be able to understand any of it, and he's probably deep breathing in his suite.

"Verbal synopsis, JARVIS," Tony asks. "Just the basics. Do we need to get him to the ER?"

"No, sir. He is approximately three and a half to four months of age, 78th percentile for length, 11th percentile for weight. There is no sign of neurological impairment or any injury. He appears to be suffering from the early stages of malnutrition and dehydration. His digestive system shows minor signs of inflammation and irritation, most likely caused by either an allergy or a sensitivity to what he has been fed of late. These symptoms should clear easily if he is given the proper nourishment. In addition, I have diagnosed a moderate to severe case of dermatitis." The AI pauses, and when he continues his tone sounds very close to disdain. "Judging by the state of his clothing and skin, he is in great need of a bath and a change of clothing. I would estimate it has been some time since he has been exposed to soap and water."

"That's not his fault," Clint says angrily.

"No, Agent Barton. The blame rests solely with those responsible for his care."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. So, uh, we need to give him a bath. And feed him. What do we feed him?"

"I have located the presumed current location of the individual who abandoned him."

They all come to attention, the tension in the workshop ratcheting up immediately.

"Where is he?" Phil asks. "Is he still on the move?"

"No, sir. He appears to be stationary at the moment. He is in a small hotel in Queens. I have transferred the relevant footage, the address, and directions to your phone. Do you wish me to contact hotel management?"

"No. I'm going in quiet. The less attention we draw to the situation, the better." He glances at Clint. "Are you coming?"

Clint looks down at the baby in his arms, who blinks up at him with sleepy, half-open eyes. There is nothing he wants more than to go with Phil, to find this asshole and punch him, and keep punching him until he explains how he could be so careless with this kid and then just leave him behind like trash, but somehow, he's made himself the baby's temporary guardian, and the last thing he wants to do is take him anywhere near the person who hurt him.

"You're staying with him, then." Phil answers himself, and it's not a question. Clint forces himself to catch Phil's gaze, but there is nothing accusatory in it -- there never is, and he wonders if he'll ever learn to stop bracing himself for it. Phil is looking at him warmly, understanding in his eyes.

"Yeah, think I have to. Take backup."

"Clint -- "

Clint grabs Phil's forearm before he can move away. "Take. Backup."

"It's Christmas, Clint, and this is unofficial. I don't want to drag anyone else out, and it's not as if this guy -- " Phil breaks off as Clint continues to stare at him, unyielding. "Okay," he says softly, and Clint squeezes his arm briefly before he lets go. "Okay."

 _Thank you_ , Clint says, without words, and Phil must be able to see it in his eyes, because he nods, reaching up to rest a hand on Clint's taut shoulder.

Natasha is warily eying the baby from across the workshop. "I'll go with you, Coulson," she says, and Clint relaxes, just a little. Clint only trusts one other person to watch Phil's back when he's not there, and that's Natasha.

"We'll find him," Phil promises. "You know we'll find him, and it won't take long for him to tell us who this baby is and where he's come from."

"Any luck with that, JARVIS?" Tony asks as he grabs the shop towels off the work counter and tosses them toward a corner.

"Not yet, sir. I am searching media and law enforcement databases for any information on a missing boy near his age, beginning with Manhattan and working outward."

"Keep us informed," Phil says as he turns and leaves the workshop, Natasha falling into step behind him.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

A quick query to JARVIS yields the response that a mix of cornstarch and petroleum jelly is beneficial for the treatment of diaper rash in the absence of medicated creams formulated for the purpose.

"I've got both upstairs," Clint realizes, turning for the door of the lab. "I'll see you all later."

"By the time you get the stuff, the first delivery of formula and diapers should be here," Pepper says with a glance at the time on her phone.

Clint frowns. "How do we know we got the right formula?"

"I just told JARVIS to order a variety," she says with a grin. "If we don't have the right one, we'll order more, and what we don't use, we'll donate."

As he heads back to his suite, he thinks about what it would be like for a kid to be raised in this environment, never hungry, never scared, never wanting for anything at all, and he has to repress the urge to go out and find enough hungry, scared kids to fill the whole damn tower.

When he reaches the communal floor once more, cornstarch and Vaseline in hand, there is noise coming from the direction of the service elevator. He heads curiously in that direction, and then stops, eyes widening.

"Jesus, Tony," he breathes. "What the hell did you order?"

Pepper looks up from where she is supervising the unloading of bags and boxes and crates. "Pretty much everything, really," she says, tapping at the screen of her phone. "You know Tony."

"Where'd he go?"

"He's still in the workshop. He and JARVIS are refining the search to try and figure out where this little guy came from." With a final nod of approval for the deliverymen, she shoves her phone in her pocket and makes grabby hands. "All right, Hawkeye. Give me the baby and nobody gets hurt."

He blinks at her, shifting away just slightly, and she laughs and insistently holds out her hands. "Come on, share! You've had him the whole time."

With a shrug, Clint hands her the baby. He's got baby butt cream to mix, after all, and he only has two hands.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"Hey, I've got a question," Darcy says from where she's perched on the countertop munching on a granola bar. Clint looks up from where he's carefully burping the half-asleep baby. "How come, if you took Superagent's name, JARVIS still calls you Agent Barton?"

Clint shrugs, immediately shushing the kid when he startles and fusses. "Sorry, sorry, shh. Sorry. It's just easier. Two Agent Coulsons is confusing. Where'd Pepper go?"

"She went up to change. She left me on sitting duty to make sure you don't accidentally drown the kid or something."

Clint's head jerks up, his mouth open in shock, and Darcy laughs.

"Just kidding, man. Actually, she told me this was something I just had to see, and she's right, it's fucking adorable, and look at you, you look so pissed at that. Seriously, dude, you have a baby in your arms and you're all rumpled and sleepy looking. It's like you just walked out of a manual on How to Make Yourself Completely Freaking Irresistible to Everyone Ever. Bet Coulson's not immune to it, either, 'cause, damn." 

Clint's rising mortification dies a swift death. He's pretty sure Phil sees the kid as nothing more than a huge headache, and Clint as the secondary cause right now. He's not about to let Darcy know that, though, so he settles for elaborately flexing as he cradles the baby closer, cocking a hip against the cabinet and glancing up at her out of half-closed eyes.

She narrows her eyes at him, and he laughs as her cheeks flush.

"Tease," she mutters, and he laughs again.

"Always. Okay, kid, let's get you a bath and we'll find you some clean clothes. Shouldn't be too hard, since it seems like Stark bought you more than any four kids need."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

By the time he's finished, the counters and floor around the sink are soaked, practically flooded, and Clint stares around, laughing in disbelief. But the baby is clean, dry, fed, and -- seemingly -- happy, by the way he's gurgling and grabbing at Clint's nose, so Clint ignores how his t-shirt and jeans are wet and clammy, clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

"Wow," Jane says as she and Thor step into the disaster area. Their cheeks are red with cold, their hair windblown, and Jane's eyes are wide as she stares at the baby while tugging off her gloves and unwinding her scarf. "Someone have a water fight in here?"

Clint laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. "Kind of. Guess you could say that. I think he won."

"This is the child Tony spoke of in his text message?" Thor says, stepping closer. "The one forsaken and left so recklessly in our care by a coward with no honor?"

His eyes are dark and troubled, and Clint bites his lip. Thor rarely talks about his brother -- and never around Clint or Phil, for which Clint is supremely grateful -- but the story of Loki's birth and subsequent "adoption" have somehow become common knowledge among the team.

"We're working on getting him back to where he belongs," Clint tells him with a reassuring slap on his arm. "JARVIS found the bas -- the guy, and Phil and Nat have gone to... question him."

"I hope they plan to return here with him," Thor says, his eyes narrowing. "I would have words with him."

Clint laughs harshly. "Yeah, pretty sure we all want to," he says as he tugs ineffectually at the sodden fabric of his t-shirt.

"You should get out of those wet clothes, you'll catch a chill," Jane tells him.

He raises an eyebrow. "In the always perfectly regulated tower?"

"Perhaps there is no danger from a chill," Thor concedes, "But you cannot be comfortable. You should go and exchange your wet clothes for dry ones. We will watch over the child while you do so." When Clint hesitates, Thor smiles widely. "A staunch and noble protector you are, shield-brother. But I give you my word, he will be safe with us."

Clint has more misgivings than he can count -- Thor is a warrior, not a nanny, and Jane forgets to put shoes on sometimes -- but Thor's given his word, and that means he'll raze worlds and bring down empires before he lets anything happen to the kid, so he shrugs and hands the drowsy baby to Jane, who has her arms open to receive him. At least she seems to know how to hold him.

"He shouldn't be much trouble. He'll probably fall asleep soon. And I'll be right back, I swear."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

"Any luck yet on finding out who he is, JARVIS?" he asks when he's back in the elevator, freshly showered and changed. He stifles a yawn -- the late night and early morning are catching up to him.

"There are several possibilities, but I do not yet have enough information to properly calculate probabilities. I am attempting to gather more information and correlate it into usable data."

"Thanks, JARVIS."

"Certainly, sir."

The elevator doors open to Thor's booming laughter. Clint freezes, and then starts forward again when he hears the kid's happy gurgles.

Thor is holding him in the crook of one arm, tickling his belly and under his chin and laughing as he squirms and coos. Jane is transfixed, watching him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and Clint thinks Darcy might have been right after all.

"There are many children in my father's halls," Thor says with a wide grin as he looks up and sees Clint. "I have missed seeing such happiness in the face of one so young." His brow furrows. "It is unfortunate that I have had this opportunity at the cost of his security."

"He's much happier now than he was when we found him, believe me," Clint says wryly. "We'll get him home, if that's where he should be. If it isn't, we'll find a good place for him."

While he was in the shower, Clint realized that even if they do have to turn this over to the NYPD and DFS, that doesn't have to be the end of his involvement. He's going to stick so close they'll think he's their shadow. Thor called him a protector, and that's what he's going to be, SHIELD involvement or not.

"I'll take him back now if you guys want to put your coats away and get out of your heavy clothes."

"He's a sweet baby," Jane says with a smile as Thor hands him over. "I hope you guys get him to where he needs to be."

Thor slaps him on the back, and Clint doesn't stagger only because he's had a lot of practice by this point. "Call for us if you require assistance."

"I will, thanks."

Playing with Thor has obviously tired the kid out. His eyelids are drooping, his dark eyes dull and tired. Clint watches, amused, as he blinks, slower and slower every time, until his eyes finally fall shut.

The floor is quiet, the light from the windows muted in the winter morning. The Christmas tree twinkles brightly in the corner, the pile of presents underneath forgotten in all the drama of the morning.

"Guess we'll get to those later," he murmurs, as he sways, lulling the baby deeper into sleep.

All of a sudden, he's exhausted. He knows the kid prefers when he's up and moving, but he's asleep right now. It probably won't matter if Clint sits down. Just for a minute, he thinks as he sinks down onto the couch, pulling the baby closer to his chest.

Just until the baby wakes up or Phil checks in or JARVIS comes up with something. That's all.


	3. Phil

By the time Phil and Natasha arrive at the tiny, rundown hotel in Queens, JARVIS has sent them the room number the man has checked into, the name he used, and how long he's checked in for -- another week, which supports the idea that he did not check in with the intent to throw them the kid and run.

To Phil's surprise, the man opens the door easily at Phil's quiet knock. He is a slight man, tall and thin, probably in his mid-to-late twenties, with sandy brown hair and watery gray eyes. His chin and jaw are covered with heavy stubble, and he looks exhausted, scared, and defeated. His gaze flicks behind Phil, eyes widening as he catches sight of Natasha. Phil guesses it's not surprising that a man who would give them a baby would recognize one of the less recognizable Avengers.

"I'm going to assume you know my associate," Phil says mildly. "And you are?"

"David Hanson."

"Of course." It's the name he gave when he checked in. "May I see your I.D.?"

The man doesn't even seem to think of refusing as he immediately hands over his wallet, and it only takes a quick glance for Phil to realize that everything in it is a forgery -- a bad forgery.

"Anything with your correct identifying information?" he asks, only just suppressing his eyeroll at the man's manufactured expression of surprised incomprehension.

"I don't -- I don't know what you mean, that's me."

"I see. Would you mind taking a ride with us, sir?"

The man nervously glances once at Natasha before seeming to deflate. He nods and steps out of the room. "Is he okay?"

"Do you care?" Natasha replies brusquely as she takes his elbow while Phil closes the door to the room. 

The man's mouth falls open. "Of -- of course I care!"

Phil takes a quick look around, glad the area is clear of witnesses as Natasha leads the man to the nondescript sedan they're driving.

"You have an interesting way of showing it," Phil observes as Natasha guides the man into the backseat -- perhaps a hair more roughly than necessary, but nothing that requires a reprimand. She gracefully folds herself into the backseat next to their new guest, and Phil takes the wheel once more.

They drive in silence that is only broken when Phil's phone vibrates in the center console as a text message arrives. He ignores it. It buzzes again. A few moments later, it buzzes again, and he glances at it before looking up into the rear view mirror. Natasha appears to be gazing mindlessly out the window, but he knows her attention is completely focused on the man in the seat beside her.

He is staring at her nearly unblinkingly. He is unrestrained, but the rear doors are locked so that they cannot be opened from the inside, and he has Black Widow in the seat beside him. He would be unconscious and drooling before he even finished thinking of trying anything.

The man jumps when Phil finally breaks the silence. "Are you prepared to tell us your name now, and that of the infant?"

"I -- I don't know what you want, I gave you my wallet. My name is David Hanson."

"There are children in the high school we're passing that can forge a better fake I.D. than that. Whomever you paid for it cheated you. Enormously."

His phone buzzes again, and he looks down at it with no small amount of consternation. If it were a true emergency, he'd be receiving calls, not texts, but it is clear that somebody wants his attention. As he comes to a stop at a traffic light, he lifts the phone out of the console.

There are several texts, all with attachments. Pepper, Dr. Foster, Steve, Darcy, Bruce, and Tony have all sent him a message. He opens the first -- from Pepper -- and blinks in surprise. It's a picture of Clint, asleep on the sofa in the communal living room, the sleeping baby cradled carefully to his chest.

A wave of emotion rolls through him, too complex to name, too many elements of _want_ and _love_ and _need_ , and Phil can only stare at his phone until horns blare behind him.

Smoothly setting the phone down again, he puts the car back in motion. Natasha is eying him curiously in the mirror. He shakes his head minutely, his face calm and reassuring, and she raises her eyebrow in return before turning her attention back to the window once more.

He quickly flips through the photos at the next light, and though it seems at first that they have all sent him the same picture, there are tiny differences -- a twitch of Clint's fingers, the angle of his head, a different sequence of lights twinkling on the Christmas tree in the background.

 _Did you coordinate a mass texting?_ he sends Pepper.

_No. Did the others send one too? Not surprised. Too adorable not to. We're letting them sleep._

He texts Steve. _On our way back w/perp. Not being forthcoming. Perhaps the sight of the full team might change his mind._

 _Understood. Assembling_ , comes back almost instantly.

Phil has the length of time from one traffic light to the next to hope that the captain understands he meant everyone except for the Hulk. Being the other guy is exhausting, and there's no need to tax Bruce so heavily for something like this.

 _Let's make it very clear to him that meeting the team is not a reward for his behavior_ , he sends Steve.

_Yes, sir._

There is still a tiny part of his inner ten-year-old flailing in astonishment that Captain America has just called him _sir_ , and he's kind of hoping that never goes away. He works with honest to God _superheroes_ , and that should never get old.

His phone vibrates again. It's Stark.

 _Conf. room H, 19th fl. Whole fl vacant._ and then _Your boy is grumpy when he wakes up. Almost took Cap's head off. You wear protective gear in the sack?_

Phil only has a moment to stifle an exasperated sigh before it vibrates again.

_Not that kind of protective gear, Agent, get your mind out of the gutter._

This time he doesn't bother stifling it.

A few minutes more and the car glides to rest in one of the spots reserved for SHIELD in the garage under the tower, and Phil sends a quick text to Steve to let him know they have arrived. He feels a flash of quiet pride when Natasha leads the man not toward the plush and comfortable elevator the residents use, but toward the service elevator instead.

Of course, this is Tony's building, so the service elevator is clean and bright, but it's definitely utilitarian, and it enforces the point that this is not a pleasure trip.

The doors open on the nineteenth floor, and he can hear the man draw in a shaky breath. Phil can practically smell his fear, and even _he_ has to take in a calming breath.

Hawkeye, Iron Man, Thor, and Captain America are standing in the hallway, in full gear, weapons held ready but not specifically aimed at the elevator. The faces he can see are stern and uncompromising, and neither Thor nor Hawkeye are able or willing to hide their disdain. Even Cap's eyes are unusually cold in his masked face.

It's an impressive welcoming committee. Phil thinks that if the Hulk had joined them, their guest might need a fresh pair of pants. He gestures down the hall for the man to precede him.

"This way, please," he says mildly, watching the guy jump as heavy footsteps fall into line behind them. He hunches further and further into himself as they walk.

"Just in there will do," Phil adds as they reach Conference Room H. Their guest practically staggers inside, whirling at the first opportunity to keep his back from the Avengers. He keeps his gaze on the ground and away from their angry faces.

Phil stops in the doorway, Natasha just behind him, the others behind her.

"Have a seat," Phil says pleasantly. "We'll be with you in just a moment."

The man opens his mouth to argue, and Phil watches his gaze flit from one team member to another. He shuts his mouth with a snap and jerks one of the chairs out from under the table, slumping in it and crossing his arms.

Phil and Natasha leave the room and join the others, the door closing behind them with a quiet click. The rest of the team is silently watching their guest through the glass panels on either side of the door, and Phil looks on as the man glances up, catches sight of them and freezes, quickly looking down again.

"Dr. Banner?" Phil quietly asks Steve.

"In reserve."

"Good call," he says, half in approval, half in relief. He hears the quiet echoes of feminine laughter, and frowns as he glances around. Clint lifts a small device from a nearby table and waggles it.

"Baby monitor."

Phil glances at Stark. "You bought a baby monitor?"

"He bought Babies R Us," Clint corrects.

Tony shrugs. "Like I know what babies need. One of everything sounded good."

"Dr. Banner and the ladies -- the other ladies," Steve amends with an apologetic smile toward Natasha, who rolls her eyes, "are keeping watch over the baby upstairs."

"We thought it best not to bring the child near this... man," Thor adds, glancing scornfully through the glass.

"I agree. Let's get started, shall we?"

He leads the way back into the room, the others easing in behind him. Conference Room H is not small -- the table seats twenty -- but the room feels absolutely crammed with five fully outfitted Avengers radiating anger and contempt.

"Mr... Hanson, is it?" Phil asks, the barest smirk on his face showing what he believes of the veracity of that claim. "David Hanson. I'm Agent Coulson, of SHIELD."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Certainly not. We're just having a conversation."

"So I can leave." The man's flat tone illustrates his disbelief in that idea.

"If you wish. You might want to remember, however, that we easily located you once. We'd have no trouble doing so again, and next time, we'll be passing our information directly to other agencies who might take more of an interest in you. Interagency cooperation is vital, you understand."

The man's gaze roams over the stern and furious gazes of the Avengers arrayed opposite him, and he sighs, slumping further into his chair.

"There are several hundred David Hansons matching his general description within the US. I can continue to narrow the list of possibilities, though I suspect that is a useless endeavor."

The man starts in surprise as JARVIS speaks, staring wildly around the room. "Where the hell is that coming from?"

"You're right, JARVIS, don't bother. Your name. And your relationship to the child you abandoned here this morning."

"I didn't _abandon_ him!"

Phil ignores his outburst. "Who is he?"

"He's my son! His name is James."

"Last name."

"Same as mine!" He shouts, gripping the edge of the table with both hands so hard that his knuckles are white, and he is shaking with anger and frustration.

Phil merely smiles. "I believe we have already established that is not your name."

"There have been no infants with that name and matching his description reported as missing within the US in the past decade," JARVIS adds.

The disembodied voice clearly still unnerves the man, but he shrugs defiantly. "Well maybe that's 'cause no one reported him missing!"

"I find that very hard to believe. And who is the boy's mother?"

"She's dead," he says harshly.

Phil studies him, but he won't meet Phil's steady gaze. "I don't believe you're being honest with me, _David_."

"You wanna know about his mother? His mother's a bitch, all right? I never get to see him, I get one fucking weekend a month, and who gets him for Christmas? She does! I had him for Thanksgiving, but I couldn't even take him out of town to see my family! I told her my parents were visiting my brother for Christmas, he lives like half an hour away, and I asked if I could have him for a while 'cause they've never even seen him, and her damn family sees him every fucking day, and she said no! It's her day! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Kidnapping him and fleeing cross country was probably not your best play."

"How -- he's _my_ kid! How can I kidnap my own kid?"

"When you don't have custody -- "

"I just... I just wanted to spend Christmas with him, okay? I just wanted my mom and dad to meet him. That's all! So I took him, but then I figured if I went to my brother's she'd send the damn cops after me, and I'd never get to see him again. So I just kept going. I thought we'd be okay, that it'd be fun, road trip with my boy, you know? But he's never happy, he never smiles and laughs for me like he does for her, and he wouldn't eat, and he just wouldn't stop puking and crapping and _crying_ , no matter what I did!"

"Why don't we starve _you_ for a few days and wipe _your_ ass with sandpaper and see if you feel like singing," Clint snarls.

"Hawkeye," Phil says mildly, but it's enough. Clint subsides, though he's scowling, hand twitching around his bow.

"And when he wasn't the perfect angel you thought he'd be, instead of taking him home to his mother and facing up to your actions like a man, you just left him, _abandoned_ him where no one might find him for hours, where anything could happen to him, and you expect sympathy?"

Captain America's righteously disappointed wrath has felled far stronger men than this one -- he hunches even more at Steve's scathing words, trying to curl into a ball to get away from them.

"What is your name?" Phil asks again. "Give me a name. Your name. His name. His mother's name. Now."

"Santiago," he murmurs, head bowed practically to the table top.

"Santiago Beltran." JARVIS reports almost instantly, as soon as he has added the new information to his searches. "15 weeks old. Reported missing by his mother, Liliana Beltran, four days ago in Tucson, Arizona. His father, Chad Bryant, removed him from the daycare center he was in against both the express wishes of his mother and the formal custody arrangement between them, as well as the daycare center's security policies. I have confirmed his identity using photos posted on his mother's social networking profiles. In regards to the abduction, there is video from the local news broadcast. Shall I play it?"

A paused newsfeed appears on the wall opposite, a shot of a crying woman, her dark hair in disarray. Before Phil can reply, Bryant stutters, "N-no! No, Jesus, no, don't play it, please."

Phil raises an eyebrow. "You think you should have the right to avoid seeing the consequences of your actions?"

When Bryant just stares at him, wide-eyed and pale, Phil turns his attention to his team. The subtlest of head tilts has them all filing out. Phil is the last to leave, and just as he reaches the threshold, he orders, "JARVIS, begin playback."

He closes the door on the sound of a woman weeping desperately.

"Stark, will you and JARVIS please see if you can track down Ms. Beltran? We need to let her know her son has been found safe, and I'm not going to wait -- I'm not in the mood for cutting through the red tape it's going to require to go through the Bureau's channels."

"Thought fighting through bureaucratic channels was how you got your rocks off, Agent," Tony says with a smirk.

Phil ignores him through long practice. "In addition, JARVIS, will you please put together a package of information regarding the team's involvement in today's events? I'll convene with you in a moment to make sure that it contains everything we want to hand over with our guest." _And nothing we don't_ , he thinks.

"Certainly, sir."

"Also, JARVIS, please cancel the appointment you arranged for the pediatric housecall; we'll make sure his own doctor examines him once he's home. Captain Rogers, Thor, perhaps one or both of you can return upstairs and inform Dr. Banner and the others of the boy's upcoming trip home, and ask them to prepare whatever he'll need for a cross-country flight."

When the men glance uneasily at each other, Phil hides a smile. "JARVIS should be able to assist them with a list of necessities. Excuse me for a moment; I have a call to make." Clint is watching him, curiously, and Phil gazes openly back. _Trust me_ , he thinks, and Clint's chin dips a fraction of an inch in acknowledgment. "Keep an eye on him?"

Clint's nod is stronger this time. "Damn straight, sir."

Natasha's nod is cool, her eyes carefully blank as she stares through the glass at the man cringing at the table, his gaze fixed on the gleaming wood.

Phil waits until the rest peel off before he steps into an empty office and pulls out his phone. "JARVIS, turn off surveillance in this room. Secure communication mode."

"Certainly, sir."

It may be Christmas morning -- Phil glances at his watch, yes, barely, but still morning -- but the phone only rings once before it's picked up. "Chapin."

"Chapin. It's Coulson."

There's a pause. "I'd say Merry Christmas and ask how you're doing, but I don't think that's why you're calling."

Chapin is a contact Phil has very carefully cultivated in the upper echelons of the FBI's New York office -- the senior agents of the various alphabet agencies form a tight knit, paranoid, and cynical network.

"No, but Merry Christmas all the same," Phil replies. "We've got a situation and we need it resolved as soon as possible."

"What kind of situation?" Chapin asks, his voice taut, and Phil can't blame him. SHIELD's _situations_ usually involve alien creatures and strange devices, wholesale death and destruction.

"The Avengers have apprehended a kidnapper."

This time the pause is longer. "Excuse me?"

"This morning, a male infant was left at the tower in the care of the team. We have determined his identity and that of his father, the non-custodial parent who took him from his mother in Arizona four days ago. The suspect is currently in our care."

"Your custody."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that. SHIELD has no reason to take him into custody. We're merely keeping an eye on him for you."

"I apologize for the interruption, Agent Coulson, but Mr. Stark has asked me to inform you that we have located the child's mother, " JARVIS reports.

"I have to confess, Coulson, this is just about the last thing I ever expected to get a call from you about."

"SHIELD prides itself on never being predictable."

"You're sure about all this?"

"Certainly. We're about to contact his mother, to confirm his identity, but that's just a formality. I expect we'll be heading to Arizona shortly after that to reunite them."

"Wait, you can't just -- "

"The boy has been separated from his mother long enough, Chapin. You are, however, more than welcome to send a representative with us. I wouldn't want you to feel out of the loop."

"Coulson -- "

"Consider it your Christmas present, Chapin. A cross-country kidnapper gift wrapped with a bow. One more case closed before year end. If I have to drop him off at the local precinct, it's going to start a turf battle, and nobody wants that." 

The silence stretches out for a moment, and then Chapin asks him, "You see Marlay's ghost last night? Get a visit from three spirits or something? You're a changed man, Coulson."

"You have an hour. How's that for hardass?"

"I think the Whos down in Whoville have gotten to you. Your heart must've grown three sizes today."

Phil hangs up on the rueful sound of the man's smile. "For the record, Chapin," he mutters, "I _am_ a hardass."

"I still think you're a hardass, Agent Coulson, and I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole."

Phil glares at the ceiling. "I thought I told you no surveillance, JARVIS."

"I have made no recordings of your communication, sir, but you said nothing about listening."

He rolls his eyes and leaves the room, returning to where Clint and Natasha are watching Bryant and Stark is muttering and tapping at his phone.

"Found her," Stark says as he looks up at Phil's approach. "Just sent her contact info to your phone. Pretty sure by this time she's got her phone stapled to her hand."

"Has the FBI assigned an agent to her son's abduction?"

It's not something Stark or JARVIS should be able to find out, but he's not surprised when Tony nods.

"Get me their number, please."

Phil repeats most of his earlier conversation with Chapin, only a little more briskly, as he has no rapport with Agent Silva. He finally convinces Silva that his credentials are genuine, and that this is not a prank. The man agrees to put Phil in touch with Liliana Beltran, and demands half an hour to get to her family home, where she has been staying.

He informs Silva that in thirty five minutes he will be calling Ms. Beltran, with or without Silva's participation, and disconnects while the man is still sputtering.

Phil takes a few moments to look over the information package JARVIS has prepared. It is well-crafted without being exhaustive, and it requires very little tweaking. He's not sure if that's Tony's input or just JARVIS' sneaky efficiency, but it makes his life just a little easier.

Silva calls back nineteen minutes later. Phil steps into the vacant office again, unsurprised when Clint follows him. The connection is tinny, full of echoes -- it's on speaker.

"Ms. Beltran, there's been a development," Silva says gravely, and Phil glares at the phone and thinks he should have just bypassed the Bureau completely and called her himself. With Silva's hamfisted handling skills, the poor woman must be terrified.

Sure enough, her voice is noticeably trembling when she hesitantly says, "Hello?"

"Ms. Beltran, I'm Agent Coulson, and I'm happy to say that I have some good news -- " he begins, and she shrieks.

"Santiago! My baby, oh God, you found him! God, please, where is he?" she gasps, her voice choked with emotion. In the background, Phil can hear voices raised in agitation, a garbled mix of English and Spanish.

" _Ya! Basta!_ " a male voice barks, cutting through the clamor, and everything falls silent except for her weeping.

"Oh my God, my baby boy, is he okay, tell me he's okay, please, I beg you," she sobs, the last word barely whispered as her voice fails her. 

"He's perf -- " Phil begins, but she recovers enough to roll right over him.

"Is he hurt, he better not have hurt him, where is he, the bastard?" And all of a sudden, her voice is shaking with rage and not relief. " _Where is he?_ El pinche pendejo, voy a matarlo! Carajo!"

"He's in custody, Ms. Beltran." It's close enough to the truth, and he chooses to ignore the death threat. "Mr. Bryant is in custody, and your son is healthy and whole. He is currently with us in New York -- "

"New York! He's in New York? He took him to _New York?_ "

"Yes, ma'am. We will be en route shortly to bring your son home. I will contact Agent Silva when I have more information to give you regarding our arrival."

"Thank you," she whispers, weeping again. "Thank you so much for finding him."

"You're welcome, Ms. Beltran. He'll be home soon."

The call disconnects, and he takes a deep, centering breath.

"Nice to be the bearer of good news for once, sir?" Clint murmurs in his ear, and Phil smiles as they exit the office and rejoin the rest of the team, who have all reconvened outside Conference Room H.

"Okay, time to go then. I'll call for a Quinjet," Clint says as he shifts to move away. Phil grasps his wrist to stop him.

"No, Clint," he says, and when Clint glances at him in confusion, he clarifies. "This is not a SHIELD operation. We can't use a Quinjet -- we can't misappropriate agency funds for something like this, something private, not when we've worked so hard to keep SHIELD out of it. I'm sorry."

Clint's jaw sets stubbornly, and he's about to argue when Tony claps him on the shoulder.

"It's okay. We'll take one of mine. Besides, you do realize you couldn't hold him and fly a Quinjet, right?"

"Oh, I could make it work," Clint shoots back. "But I'd be more than happy to hand him off to someone else if it would get him home faster, Stark."

"Yeah. Okay." Tony says with a roll of his eyes. "Sure."

"This way I don't have to, and you foot the bill. It's a win-win."

"Agent Coulson, there are two agents in the lobby asking for you."

Phil's lips quirk in a tiny smile. Chapin didn't waste any time. He nods. "Send them up, please, JARVIS."

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

The transfer -- both of "guest" and information -- goes smoothly, and none of them are sad to see the back of Bryant. The team returns to the residence and lets Phil deal with the Bureau's men, for which he is grateful; things rarely go smoothly when the Avengers en masse and SHIELD interact, let alone the Avengers and any other government agency.

By the time he gets upstairs, they have spread over the living room, draping and sprawling over all the available furniture, still in their battle gear. The only one who's changed is Tony -- the suit isn't made for lounging, and it's bad for the furniture. They are all talking, several conversations at once, and it's as loud and chaotic as it always is, and yet, Phil can see that the baby is comfortably asleep in Clint's lap.

He marvels at that for a moment, and then Natasha slips free of the discussion and glides over to him, leaning on the wall beside him and crossing her arms. She's watching Clint as he laughs with Thor, and though her body is loose and languid, Phil can read the tension in her. He's had years of practice.

"Natasha?"

"He hasn't put that baby down all day," she murmurs.

Phil's lip curls in a fond smile. "You of all people know how he gets when he's appointed himself protector."

She hums, considering his words. "I only hope he doesn't suffer when the child no longer needs his protection." She cuts her eyes toward him. "He doesn't cope well when connections are suddenly severed."

Phil frowns at the blunt reminder of the chaotic aftermath of Loki's attack. "If he does have difficulty, I suppose we'll deal now as we did then, one day at a time, and together."

Her eyes twitch at what she perceives as sentimentality, but he is merely being honest, and he steadily holds her gaze. After a moment, she gives him the barest hint of a nod, and the taut line of her shoulders smooths out.

Clint catches his eye and his amused grin flashes into a happy smile. Warmth surges through Phil, familiar and fond and always new, and he smiles back. Clint glances away as Darcy mutters something to him, rolling his eyes and giving Steve an apologetic tap on the arm for cutting their conversation short before standing and crossing to them.

His smile fades out, all business now even as he's swaying to lull the sleeping baby. "Everything go okay?"

"He's in custody, and they have all the information JARVIS prepared. I don't foresee any problems."

Clint scoffs. "Yeah, 'cause the Bureau has a spotless track record. I'll think I'll keep an eye on things, just in case."

Phil suspects most -- if not all -- of the team will. 

"You were right, Clint," Phil tells him. "If we'd turned this over to the locals or the Bureau from the beginning, they wouldn't have gotten him home this quickly."

Clint grins at him. "Excuse me, can you say that again so I can record it this time?" he teases, but that's all it is -- a tease. They both know Phil has always been the one to back his plays, to defend him when everyone else at SHIELD was willing to write him off, even before they fell in love. He turns to Natasha. "You heard that, right, Nat?"

"Hmm? I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

Phil smirks as Clint glares at her in mock outrage. "Ready to go?"

"Yes. So ready. Let's get this guy home." Shifting the baby, Clint reaches awkwardly past him to the wildly patterned diaper bag sitting on the floor by the arch that makes up the room's entry. Phil takes the bag from him and lifts it to his shoulder. He ignores the sudden and surreptitious cell phone camera activity around them, merely hoping the photos do not make their way back to SHIELD. Enough rumors about him and about the Avengers already run rampant in the halls. He's fairly certain it's a futile wish, though.

Everyone is standing and he suddenly realizes they all mean to accompany him and Clint and Tony -- the whole team, as well as Darcy, Pepper, and Jane.

"You cannot all come along," he says flatly. For one thing, he is trying to minimize the team's connection with this case, and they are not exactly conspicuous suited up as they all are. Most importantly, having the whole team away from the tower and across the country leaves the tower -- and the city -- vulnerable.

"I contacted Richards, and Dr. Xavier," Steve tells him, well aware of what his concerns are. "They're all on standby. We're coming along, Phil. We all want to see him go home."

Phil's gaze roams over all of them. Tony's presence is easily explainable, since he is providing the transportation, and he has a reputation for being randomly philanthropic -- what people don't know is how closely he works with his charitable foundations behind the scenes. Clint and Natasha, the least well known Avengers, can blend in easily -- they've had years of training in it -- and no one knows Bruce, since they're only familiar with the Hulk. Steve too can stay relatively inconspicuous when he's in civvies, but Thor stands out even when he's not in his armor.

But they are all involved in this, they have all given up their holiday to see to the safety and welfare of this baby, and they deserve to see this situation to its resolution. He can't in good conscience deny them that.

"You can't go like that," he tells them, and he flicks his eyes toward the ceiling when they grin and fidget like children given a reprieve from punishment. Even Tony looks pleased, though he hides it quickly. "Everyone in civvies. Ten minutes, please -- there's a woman in Arizona who's waiting anxiously for her son to come home."

The group breaks up quickly -- superheroes move fast when they are motivated. Clint is the last to go as he hands Santiago off to Pepper with a smile and follows the rest.

A small smile quirking his lips, Phil watches the women coo and laugh over the baby. Darcy looks up to catch him and grins.

"You and your man are adorable all accessorized with a munchkin. You should really think about a dozen or so of your own."

"Yes, because an accessory is exactly what an infant is," he retorts, but he is well aware the snarky tone he is trying for is nothing but fond. "You have also called us adorable when we were covered in rancid slime, when we were fighting off robotic weaponized raccoons, and when we were so pissed off at each other we didn't speak for three days."

Darcy's grin only widens. "And you were. Damn adorable. In each and every one of those circumstances, Superagent."

He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, and she laughs and goes back to wiggling her fingers over the baby's face.

The rest are all back within the allotted ten minutes, wearing jeans or khakis and sweaters. Thor's hair is bound and he is wearing -- Phil takes a closer look -- an Oklahoma City Thunder cap. Knowing who's responsible for that, Phil side-eyes Clint, who grins unrepentantly. Steve is wearing his habitual Dodgers cap, and Phil supposes that if one doesn't know who they are, they might simply be a couple of very fit, very handsome guys.

Tony is Tony -- he commands the attention of a room whether he's trying or not.

"This is not an Avengers-related op," Phil reminds them all.

Stark's eyes are innocent and wide. "Moral support only," he swears. 

"You won't even see us," Darcy adds.

"Let's go," he says dryly, resettling the enormous diaper bag on his shoulder once more. What have they packed for the kid, bricks? Has Tony set up a college scholarship for him in the form of gold bars?

They're finally all walking towards the elevator when Tony stops and tilts his head, clearly thinking. "JARVIS," he says after a moment, "Get some guys from shipping up here. Wrap up everything we bought today that we aren't taking with us and have it sent to the address you've got for the kid's mom."

He notices them all staring at him. "What? It's not like we need this crap. We'll call it a Christmas present."

Clint glances down at Santiago in his arms. "Pretty sure the only Christmas present she cares about getting is this one right here, Stark."

The baby coos at him, dark eyes bright, and Phil thinks he might be agreeing.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Much of the flight passes uneventfully. Most of the group has congregated near the front of the cabin, but Phil and Clint are sitting near the rear, having ignored the indulgent looks of most of the team when they split off.

Phil is reading on his tablet, and Clint would normally be doing the same on a flight, bouncing and tapping along with the music in his earbuds, but now he is simply sitting, eyes unfocused and distant most of the time, only clearing every once in a while when he glances down to check on the baby.

He's still in a way he only is when he's working, and it dawns on Phil that for Clint, this _is_ a mission. He won't let himself relax until the baby left in what he considers his care is home safely.

"I'm a little worried about how much he's sleeping," Clint murmurs at one point. "I know babies sleep a lot, but this seems like _a lot_."

"He's been under a hell of a lot of stress," Phil tells him, ignoring the chastising look Clint gives him for the swear word. "He's probably just recovering now that he's clean and dry and getting the right formula. He probably feels safe enough to rest."

"Y'think?"

"I do. JARVIS would have told us if there was something bigger to worry about."

"I guess."

"You're so good with him."

Clint looks up from monitoring the baby's breathing. "I like babies. Kids."

Phil studies his face -- his soft expression, the hint of vulnerability in his furrowed brow. Kids are not something they've discussed. Maybe they should have.

"You know, Steve spends a few hours a week in the employee daycare center in the tower, playing with the kids and reading to them. You should join him."

Clint snorts. "Right. You want me reading to kids? I can be the cautionary tale that reminds them to stay in school."

"Or what?" Phil retorts. "Or become a top specialist in an elite intelligence agency _and_ a superhero, and live in a lavish suite in the most expensive and sought-after real estate in the city?" Clint glares at him and he huffs a little laugh, shaking his head. It makes him so angry sometimes that Clint still sees himself as the uneducated, circus-trained, law-breaking ruffian he was in his early adulthood. "You're not quite the cautionary tale you used to be, Clint."

He ducks his head and then glances up at Phil through his lashes, his eyes hooded and dark. "Can I still be the bad boy your mama always warned you about?"

Heat surges through Phil, and his answering laugh is just a touch shaky. "Always." He pauses for a moment and then presses his point. "So don't read to them. Visit during art hour. Make a mess finger painting or sponge painting or whatever it is three-year-olds do during art hour. Bring me a masterpiece I can hang on the fridge."

Clint laughs, rolling his eyes. Santiago shifts in his lap and Phil watches as he glances down again, gently rearranging the baby so he's comfortable.

The question sits on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't ask. There are so many factors, so many complications, and he doesn't know if it's even worth bringing it up. His uncertainty must show on his face, because Clint touches the back of his hand with his fingertips.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Phil..."

Phil glances around and suppresses a sigh. It doesn't appear that anyone is paying them any attention, but it's always difficult to tell with the Avengers, given their various assets and abilities. He has to say something though, or Clint will worry, and he's not going to lie. He gave up hiding his feelings when he died with them still hidden.

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Have you ever... what I mean is, do you want..." He trails off, gesturing at the child in Clint's arms. "You're young enough for a family."

Clint's looking at him like he's crazy. " _I'm_ young enough?" he repeats. "What are you, ancient?"

Clint means it as a joke, but yes, some days when Phil's knees ache and his chest and back and shoulders throb with every heartbeat, he feels like a dusty relic. "I'm nearly fifty, Clint. Way too old for two a.m. feedings and chasing toddlers."

A brief squabble breaks out across the jet where Darcy, Tony, Natasha, Thor, and Steve are playing cards with Pepper, Jane, and Bruce looking on. Agent Lanik, the FBI representative, is watching them with wide, fearful eyes. Just as Phil sighs and prepares to go break it up, Steve's stern voice cuts through the chaos and things settle down again.

He looks back to see Clint grinning ruefully at him. Yes, sometimes his job _does_ resemble chasing toddlers. Very large, superpowered, hyperactive toddlers. He shrugs, acknowledging the point.

Clint's smile slowly fades and he looks down again.

"Clint?"

"It doesn't have to be a baby or an ankle-biter," Clint says quietly. "There's plenty of older kids in the system who need a home, too."

It takes effort, but Phil resists the urge to slip an arm around Clint and pull him close, settling instead for a brief bump of his shoulder against the other man's. He knows that Clint was one of those older kids, waiting and hoping with his brother, never getting a second look, watching enviously as the adorable babies and pink-cheeked toddlers found homes and families.

"It is something you've thought about, then."

"I always promised myself that if I ever had a stable life and a steady job and a roof over my head..." Clint's gaze is firmly on the baby in his lap, his shoulders hunching defensively. "But I'd be a terrible father."

Phil glares at him. "What in the hell makes you say that?" he hisses, and Clint's wide eyes find his.

After a moment, he shrugs. "What do I know about taking care of a kid?"

"What do you think you've done all damn day?"

Clint huffs out a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, that makes me a babysitter. Not a parent."

"Who makes sure I eat when I forget? How many times have you dragged me out of my office when I fall asleep at my desk? Who stayed with me during every single exhausting step of my rehab? Was that your evil twin? An LMD?"

Clint's lips twitch, a ghost of his normal cocky grin. "Well, yeah, I'm an awesome husband. But kids... kids are different. I'd just screw one up."

Phil takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly to keep from grabbing Clint by the shoulders and shaking some sense into him. "It's not -- it's not _that_ different, Clint. Love is love, and you..."

 _You have such an amazing, limitless capacity to love_ , he thinks, but the words stick in his throat. He can't say them, not here, and Clint won't believe them anyway.

"Doesn't matter anyway, if you don't want a kid," Clint mumbles.

"I've never said that," Phil says sharply.

Clint's gaze is confused. "You do? But... you've never said..."

"Neither have you."

Clint smiles wryly. "This is one of those things where we probably should've actually talked about sh -- stuff instead of just assuming, huh? Kind of like, y'know, the whole us thing."

Before Phil can reply, the pilot announces their final descent, and he can feel the jet begin banking.

"We'll talk about this later," he says, and when he sees the resignation on Clint's face as he nods, Phil sighs. "I'm not brushing you or this discussion off, Clint, I swear. But this is not the place for it, and we don't have time to get into things now. I promise you, we will talk about this later."

After a searching look that nearly takes Phil's breath away -- it's always a rush having all of Clint's focus and attention concentrated directly on him -- Clint gives him a quick, relieved smile and the hint of a nod.

Phil thinks that's the end of it for now, and he turns his gaze back to his tablet, but it's only a moment or two before he feels Clint staring at the side of his head. He looks up, one eyebrow arched questioningly.

"You think you -- I mean, you'd really..." He trails off and shrugs, glancing away again.

"Want kids?" Phil asks to clarify, and Clint nods, still looking out the window. Phil touches his arm, bringing his attention back. "If you had asked me yesterday, I don't know what I would have said. I probably would have said that I'd never given it much thought. But..."

He does what he's been so careful to avoid doing. He reaches over and cups the sleeping baby's head in his palm. It's warm and soft against his skin, and he can practically feel the life thrumming in his little body. He can't help his smile, and when he glances up, he loses his breath again at the naked longing in Clint's eyes.

He's caught in those incredible eyes, as he always is. "The idea of raising a family with you?" he murmurs. "Of starting our own traditions and passing them on? Dancing at our kid's wedding? This little guy has certainly given me a lot to think about."

Clint's slowly blossoming smile turns rueful, but no less fond. He's well aware Phil would never make such a momentous decision with so little thought and consideration.

"You know," he says, "You're the only one who hasn't had a chance to hold him. You wanna?"

Phil thinks for a moment and then tucks his tablet away. "Sure," he says, and he tries to stay objective in the face of how _right_ it feels when Clint settles the boy in his arms, keeping one arm strong and steady around him for the rest of the flight.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

Phil deplanes just behind Agent Lanik, straightening his suit, and Clint is right behind him, very carefully making his way down the steps. The rest of the team follows, but they settle around the base of the stairway they get a better grasp on the situation.

An older man with silver hair, naturally bronze skin burnished even further by the desert's relentless sun, steps through the little door from the private hangar. He is walking briskly toward them, when a tiny woman, all of five-foot-nothing, pushes through the door and runs past him, dark hair flying behind her.

"Ms. Beltran, wait -- "

"My baby," she cries. "Where is he, my baby!"

"Ms. Beltran, I asked you to wait inside!" the moron who can only be Silva calls.

She catches sight of Clint holding her son and just stops, a hand to her mouth. She is swaying alarmingly, and Phil jumps forward to steady her.

"Mijito! Oh, God, Santiago, my baby," she whispers, reaching forward with trembling hands.

Once he's sure she's not going to go down, Clint steps forward and hands her her son without a word.

She is weeping as she holds him tightly to her chest, pressing kisses all over his face. Phil can hear feminine sniffles and masculine throat clearing behind him, and he's not surprised -- his throat feels clogged, his tie is too tight, and his vision is a little blurred. Perhaps more than a little.

Silva finally joins them. "Ms. Beltran -- "

Before he can continue, Phil grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him away.

"What the hell?" the man blusters.

"Give them a moment, please," Phil thinks, sharing a look with an exasperated and disbelieving Agent Lanik, and makes a note to contact Silva's superior once he's back in the office.

The entire team jumps as the hangar door bangs open and people pour out. Over a dozen, men and women of all ages, and they are all crying and talking loudly as they surround Liliana and her son, but she has eyes only for him.

Silva steps forward to try to gain control of the situation once more, and he is completely ignored, as he should be. Phil rolls his eyes and doesn't try to stop the man again.

Clint is quietly watching them, lips curved in a soft smile, his eyes a little brighter than usual. Phil steps half a step closer, bumping his shoulder against Clint's.

"Everything okay?" he asks, concerned.

Clint tears his eyes away from the reunion to stare wide-eyed at Phil. "Okay?" he laughs. He gestures with his chin toward the laughing, crying mess of a family before them. "Look at that. Look at them, Phil. We did that. We put them back together. Okay? This is the best Christmas ever."

Looking into his husband's awed and happy face, Phil has to agree.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feelstide Prompt #87: The team finds a baby left on their doorstep on Christmas morning.


End file.
